Saturday 22 August 2009 19.01 EDT
First published on Saturday 22 August 2009 19.01 EDT

Nicola Iseard is led by mule into the Atlas mountains. Photograph: Christian Luthy

From the terrace of our riad in Marrakech they had barely been visible, just a hazy silhouette against the dark mottled sky. But as our taxi peeled away from the city, out into the southern plains, they appeared through the dust: great peaks of burnt-orange rock. Heading deep into the foothills we were soon surrounded by startling mountain-desert scenery.

Spanning the breadth of Morocco, the Atlas Mountains act as a barrier between the lush, fertile plains of the Mediterranean and Atlantic coastlines in the north and the encroaching sands of the Sahara desert in the south. The result is an astonishing landscape, where arid rangeland meets fast flowing rivers and rich vegetation, above which tower snowy summits. My fiancé, Christian, and I would only be scratching the surface during our two-day trek, but for us it wasn't just about the landscape - we were here to get an authentic taste of Berber life, staying in the hamlet of Tamatert in the High Atlas.

Tamatert is inaccessible by car: the taxi dropped us at Imlil, where we loaded our backpacks into the brightly coloured panniers of a donkey and set off towards the hamlet.

It had taken us less than two hours to reach Tamatert from Marrakech, but the two were worlds apart. The quiet was overwhelming. As we ascended the steep lane - no more than a metre wide, lined with mud houses and peopled with foraging goats - it was like being transported back centuries in time; children peeked from behind the long robes of their mothers, while other, more daring, ones darted out from open doorways to see who the new arrivals were.

Foreigners aren't entirely unknown in Tamatert, though. Five years ago the Berber guest house of Douar Samra was opened by an enchanting Swiss woman, Jacqueline Brandt. After the death of her son in an accident in 1998, Jacqueline went in search of "a rebirth". A keen painter, she moved from her home in France, to Morocco, having been captivated by its light. She began in Marrakech, but was drawn to the mountains, particularly to Tamatert, where she fell in love with its plunging view of the valley.

"But there were no good beds to sleep in up here, or toilets!" she says. "I wanted to build a house for people like me to stay in."

So that's what she did. In 2004 Jacqueline bought a derelict house, knocked it down and, with the help of locals - who adopted her as one of their own - built a traditional Berber house of pisé (beaten earth), wood and stone. Douar Samra was born. "Welcome, my friends," Jacqueline beamed, holding open the front door with one hand, clutching one of her three shih-tzu dogs in the other. "Now you can relax," she said, leading us to our suite (there are seven guest bedrooms in all). "You are home."

It was like stepping into a much-loved haven: the floors were covered with woven grass mats, the walls were hung with local art, the beds were piled with Berber blankets and sequined cushions.

Suites it may have, but this is no hotel; Jacqueline has created a traditional Berber home, which welcomes visitors but is part of the community. Bread is bought daily from a lady next door, the linen is washed a few doors up and local people help run Samra. Omar tends the garden, growing rhubarb, courgettes and tomatoes, which are cooked by Rashida and served to guests by Mohammed.

After an early night and a hearty breakfast of boiled eggs, fresh bread and jam, it was time to do as the Berbers do: walk. We set off with our guide Abdul - an energetic 30-year-old with a cheeky grin and passion for the history and culture of his country - on a six-hour round-trip trek to Tachdirte.

As we began our ascent up a steep rocky hillside scattered with cedar trees, I could feel my leg muscles starting to burn. On cue, Abdul breezily announced that Tachdirte is in fact the highest village in North Africa, at over 2,000m. Gulp. Thankfully, when we reached the pass and set off along a meandering road towards the village the going got easier.

The Berbers call the Atlas idraren draren, "Mountains of Mountains", and I was starting to see why: they were all-encompassing, stretching for miles, dusty red or shadowy ochre, depending on the position of the sun.

As we neared Tachdirte, I noticed rocks below speckled with flashes of colour - it was laundry, drying in the midday sun. A huddle of women were washing clothes in the river while husbands, sons and brothers tended crops in the bright green irrigated fields and walnut groves that straddle the river. Abdul told us they sell the crops at the market in Imlil, using the money to buy sugar and fruit. We heard music and excited voices. It was Marouf, a day of celebration, where people from the village congregate for a meal to give thanks to Allah for a good year's health and harvest.

With a small wave and a "salaam alaykum" ("peace be with you") we left them to it, and passed through the village, only to realise we'd been followed by a group of children. "Bonbons?", they asked, palms outstretched, and I cursed myself for not thinking to bring sweets with me.

Our excursion was a talking point at dinner that evening, with newly arrived guests eager to hear about our day. Meals at Samra are a communal affair: everyone sits together around low tables in a den-like room at the top of the house. The food was plentiful and delicious: large earthenware dishes of slow-cooked lamb with cinnamon and saffron, spicy lentil salad, fresh bread and bean dips, followed by sweet sponge cake and mint tea. When the light began to fade, Mohammed filled the room with candles and lanterns (while our suite had electricity, most of the house did not).

The mercury was hitting 30C when we set out the next morning. Abdul was leading us on a three-hour walk to Sidi Chamharouch, a Berber settlement which has grown up around a Muslim shrine, and is on the trekking route to Toubkal, at 4,167m the highest mountain in North Africa.

We followed a path from Imlil to Armed, the largest village in the valley, before crossing a vast flood plain, and climbing up a steep hillside to join a narrow trail. There was hardly a soul around, but occasionally women appeared from nowhere carrying huge bales of scrub on their backs (dinner for their mules, we later discovered).

Sidi Chamharouch, set beside a waterfall, is a cluster of pisé homes, above which towers the shrine: a huge white-painted rock with a flag on top. We sat by the stream and refuelled on mackerel, rice, peppers, potatoes and cherries, all of which Abdul had carried in his backpack. Above us, a man in a brown robe sat cross-legged, deep in prayer.

"People with problems or unhappiness come from all over Morocco to this shrine looking for help from Allah," said Abdul. "They come with a goat or a chicken, which they sacrifice and share with the village people. They stay here until they dream good thoughts that show them the future will be better."

Back at Samra that evening, Mohammed served us mint tea and biscuits on the terrace. And as I gazed out at the plunging view that had captured Jacqueline's heart all those years ago, I couldn't help but think that, in a place like this, good thoughts really come all on their own.

Essentials

Inntravel (01653 617000; inntravel.co.uk) offers a week-long walking trip from £698 (based on two sharing), including three nights' B&B in Marrakech with a half-day guided city tour, four nights' half board at Douar Samra, three picnics, transfer to Tamatert and personal walking guide.